


A Simple Errand

by vanillafluffy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Gangsters, Gen, Prohibition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:35:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25230988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: For the prompt, "On January 16, 1920 Prohibition went into effect...".Steve and Bucky would have grown up during the '20s where Prohibition was a fact of life--and so were mobsters and people trying to get around the law. Lindburgh flew the Atlantic in 1927. This takes place during spring, 1928, when Bucky would be eleven and Steve would be a bit younger. Bucky gets side-tracked running an errand for his dad, and Steve goes looking for him and winds up in a predicament of his own.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 3
Collections: Bite Sized Bits of Fic from 2020





	A Simple Errand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cozy_coffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cozy_coffee/gifts).



“Hey, kid!” Dang it. He’s supposed to be meeting Steve at the movie at 2:00. There’s a newsreel about Charles Lindbergh that they both want to see. 

He’s in the basement of the brownstone where Mr. Viterbo resides on Bogart Street. Mr. Viterbo, who owns several buildings on the block--his dad is the maintenance man for those buildings, and if Mr. Viterbo gets mad at Bucky, they could all wind up on the curb. That would be bad…

Bucky knows better than to refuse--he stops in his tracks. “Yes, sir?”

“I need you to do me a favor. Run out and get us some sandwiches,” Viterbo says, indicating the three other men around the poker table. “You can do that, a smart guy like you.”

Bucky simulates a smile. “Sure, Mr. Viterbo.”

“There’s something in it for you,” Viterbo says, reaching into his pocket. The roll of bills he pulls out makes Bucky stare. The man holds up a ten-spot and to Bucky’s shock, tears it in half. He extends half, the part with the serial numbers, Bucky notes, taking it with some trepidation. “Show that to Tony--You get the rest when you come back.”

“Yes, sir.” Bucky is pretty sure tearing up money is a crime, like lying on a Bible or burning a flag. Not that he’d squeal! “What kind of sandwiches do you want?”

The other men chuckle in the background. Viterbo grins. “We already called in the order,” he says easily. “All you have to do is run and pick it up, the guy puts it on my tab.”

Another laugh, but Bucky disregards it. Grown-ups say lots of things they don’t expect kids to understand, and this one is over his head. “Okay, where do I go?”

“This place.” Viterbo hands him a scrap with an address on it. It’s halfway across Brooklyn! 

Bucky’s dismayed, but ten bucks? Dad would have his head for passing up that kind of dough! He throws caution to the winds. “Okay, Mr. Viterbo--I’ll hurry! I’ll be back before you know it!”

“Yeah, you do that. We’re hungry.”

***

Steve paces the sidewalk in front of the Odeon until he knows the feature has started inside. By then, he knows Bucky isn’t coming. Bucky hates being late for anything. He wouldn’t miss the opening curtain. They’re _always_ in time for the newsreels and cartoons before the picture.

Maybe his pal got stuck doing chores at home. That happens sometimes. He wanders over to the Barnes apartment on Perske Street. He knocks on the backdoor and takes off his cap as Mrs. Barnes opens it. “I suppose you’re here looking for James?”

He never calls him Bucky like the rest of the neighborhood. “He went on an errand for his da…oh, just after I put the dough down to rise…about forty-five minutes ago. Pat needed him to take a receipt over to Mr. Viterbo…around the side,” she says disapprovingly. “Anyway, he’ll be back when he gets back. By supper time, I hope. You’re welcome to come to supper, Stevie. Cabbage, with a nice bit of lame bone in it. You two can put your heads together doing the washing up after.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Barnes! I’ll see you later!” Usually business is conducted at the side door…the tradesman's entrance, which would be par for a small errand like this. Does Mrs. Barnes think Bucky should’ve gone to the front door? He mulls it over. 

Everybody knows Joe Viterbo owns a big chunk of a couple blocks in the neighborhood. Either he owns them, or he has an interest. Steve knows where Mr. Viterbo himself lives; Bucky has pointed out the respectable-looking brownstone house. 

It won’t hurt to walk that way and see if he bumps into Bucky on the way. Both sides of Bogart Street are lined with brownstone buildings--a few of them are single-family homes, most have been divided into apartments. The classiest house is Viterbo’s--scarlet geraniums spill from window boxes on the first and second floors, splashing color against the severe brick.

There are lace curtains in the front windows downstairs. That must be thanks to Mrs. Viterbo, who, according to Mr. Barnes, is a holy terror. “She makes him go down to the cellar to smoke!” he’d marveled. “A rich man like that, in his own home! She says the smoke from his cigars makes the furniture smell funny, can you beat that?”

Steve’s not a fan of cigar smoke--or cigarette smoke, for that matter!--but he knows Mr. Barnes takes his pipe out onto the stoop if he wants a smoke. Mrs. B. likes nice things, even if they can’t afford fancy--he’s watched her starch and iron their humble curtains, and he's heard her scold Bucky and his dad when they track in dirt. Mr. B. may be a little hen-pecked himself! Maybe that’s why he laughed, because he and wealthy Mr. Viterbo have something in common.

Back and forth down Bogart Street in both directions, Steve strolls. There’s some shade at this time of day with the sun sliding westward. There’s no sign of his pal. Has he been put to work? Bucky is always ready to take on odd jobs, shoveling coal or peeling potatoes or running to the store. He might be sitting in the kitchen scraping carrots for a quarter. A quarter, added to their movie money will buy them a feast. Maybe they’ll go to an Automat…a couple times, they’ve pooled their pennies and split a wedge of pie from behind the little door of the marvelous vending machines.

“Hey, kid.” A man in a brown fedora slouches on the stoop out in front of the Viterbo house. He’s puffing on a cigarette. “What’s going on with you? You been back and forth twice now, looking at this house the whole time. What are you, some kind of junior G-man?”

Steve hangs his head, wheezing softly. The guy will think he’s funny in the head if he says he liked looking at the geraniums. “No, sir. I’m looking for my friend, Bucky. He was supposed to be coming over here, his ma said.”

“Your friend, Bucky,” the man repeats, eyeing Steve speculatively. “What would he be doing here?”

“Bucky Barnes. He was dropping off some kind of receipt for his dad. He does odd jobs, too.” Anxiety makes his throat tighten.

“Odd jobs?” Fedora snorts and drops the cigarette to the cracked cement. “Yeah, I know who you mean. He went out to get us some lunch.”

Steve feels a little better. Whatever his pal is up to, there must be a good payday in it…Automat, here we come! The though triggers a deep breath, which sets off a paroxysm of coughing. Between all the walking and being nervous about Fedora’s questions, his lingering winter bronchitis is kicking up a fuss. Or seasonal allergies--his nose has been stuffed worse than usual.  
It doesn’t help that he’s out of his meds at the moment. The druggist at Draper’s wants $2 paid on his tab before he’ll sell him anything, even patent medicine. He's got a total of thirty-two cents, so he's out of luck.

Fedora looks alarmed. “Are you okay?”

He’d answer if he could just catch his breath. He feels warm…it’s May, too balmy for flannel, but it’s the only shirt he’s got. Fedora ushers him along the house to the side door and takes him inside. He's steered down a flight of limestone steps into the basement. Steve knows his face is the color of a radish. 

“What the hell?” A heavy-set man with a dark growth of stubble on his jaw glares in their direction. He’s sitting at a table with two other men, cans fanned out across a pile of cash. “What’s with the kid, Frankie?”

“It’s okay, Joe. He’s a friend of the Barnes kid,” Steve’s companion shrugs. “I thought he’d be more comfortable waiting here with us. Sit over there,, kid. Take a load off and catch your breath.” 

There’s an armchair in one corner, a blanket thrown over it. Steve sinks wearily onto it. The blanket _does_ smell like cigars. The cellar itself smells like cigars, damp stone and coal dust, not that the furnace is going today! A sneeze, and more coughing…Steve is mortified and starting to panic.

“Cough syrup,” Frankie suggests. “Give the kid some gigglewater.”

Giggle water means booze--hooch--illegal alcohol. Steve’s heard about Joe Viterbo, like, Bucky’s dad got a bottle of real whiskey from him for Christmas last year and that, Bucky informed him, means he’s got to be some kind of gangster, since booze is contraband these days and you have to be connected to get it.

His suspicions are confirmed when Viterbo produces a pint bottle of amber liquid, pours an inch into the bottom of a glass. “Knock this back, kid. It’ll put hair on your chest.”

Steve’s chest feels like somebody left all the air out. He’s getting light-headed and they’re all looking at him, Viterbo and his three friends? goons? associates. Between persistent breathlessness and anxiety at the thought of being in a bootlegger’s lair, his cough redoubles. 

The amber smells like cough medicine, kind of…Steve opens his mouth and reaches for the glass. Viterbo hands it to him and he pours the stuff down his throat. He manages to swallow instead of inhaling it, which at that point is a miracle.

It sizzles going down, but the taste isn’t any worse than most of the stuff he gets from the drugstore. He’s stopped coughing.

“There you go! He’ll be swell.” Viterbo beams. “Best cough syrup in town. Your buddy should be back soon, you just take a little nap while you're waiting.” 

Since he’s still wheezing, Viterbo encourages to take another shot--for medicinal purposes. Steve knows there’s alcohol in some of the preparations he takes, so it probably won’t hurt him. He can feel it working, everything feels looser, including his chest…and if he’s going to be sitting around while Bucky buys sandwiches, here’s as good a place as any….

Frankie takes his place at the table. Somebody else is shuffling the deck. A radio is playing quietly in the background, something out post time…. Gradually, his eyes droop closed. He isn’t the least bit sleepy, but he’s floating the way he does when he’s falling asleep and can’t move…he rests his eyes and keeps his ears open.

“Nothing from Romero?” Frankie asks Viterbo. “What’s taking that kid so long to get there?”

“I haven’t heard the phone either,” Viterbo’s tone is strained. “but don’t worry, I know where he lives.” 

***

Romero’s Delicatessen is two bus rides away from Bogart Street, and Bucky simmers with impatience. The idea of collecting ten bucks just for fetching sandwiches…it must be great to be so rich you can order fancy sandwiches and be able to hire somebody else to go get them for you.  
Most weeks, they don’t have ten bucks to spare--Bucky knows how thrifty his folks are--so he’s looking forward to the moment when the strolls into the kitchen and handing it to Ma. Or maybe, since it’s torn, he’ll give one half to Dad and the rest to Ma. 

His dad says Mr. Viterbo is an important guy. How he makes his money, well, that’s his business, as long as he can afford to keep hiring Da to do the upkeep on his properties. So maybe Viterbo talked into doing something shady…but he’d had to go, right? All this from delivering a plumbing receipt? Gosh, if he gets in a jam, Da will have a fit, Ma? He shrivels a little at the thought of her reaction. Fingers crossed like Lindy crossed the Atlantic--maybe it really IS lunch!

Bucky approaches Romero’s with care. It’s not like he expects to find tommy-guns hanging up with the prosciutto, but there might be Feds around--but nobody is wearing dressy suits or looks too well dressed for the bustling street. Everything looks ordinary--ladies in worn cotton dresses pushing baby buggies, some girls jumping rope a few buildings away. A dark green Packard is at the far curb, its hood folded back, a man looking into the engine compartment with disgust. Too bad--they’re supposed to be good cars…maybe he bought some bad gas.

Crossing the street, Bucky decides in and out, fast as he can is the best way to do this. No chit-chat, nothing to make himself too memorable to Mr. Viterbo’s pal Tony. Accordingly, he pushes the green-painted door open and slips inside.

Too bad the diminutive grandmother ahead of him at the counter has other ideas. She’s getting a half pound of shaved cappicola--she turns to him and asks if he’s there for cappicola? “That way Tony don’t have to put it away and get it back out,” she explains. 

“I’m just here for a lunch order my boss called in,” Bucky says, with a glance across the counter at the fella. Does he really want to name-drop in front of granny? “Mr. Bogart,” he adds, hoping that’s enough of a clue for the guy.

“Keep your shirt on while I take care of this lady--Mrs. Martelli, did you want some Parmesan today? It’s a new wheel, fresh off the boat, very nice.”

Bucky stands there, shifting from foot to foot while Tony Romero and Mrs. Martelli catch up on Mrs. Romero and all the little Romeros. It’s only a couple minutes by the clock over the front door, but ringing up her purchases seems to take forever.

The cluster of baby carriages has broken up, while the girls down the block have switched to hopscotch. Another car pulls alongside the green Packard. The passenger is talking to the Packard driver. The second car’s driver is scanning his side of the street. Is he especially interested in the deli? Maybe they’re hungry?

The old lady finally leaves. Romero eyes him. “Bogart?”

“I don’t think Mr. Viterbo needs granny to know his business, do you?”

“She’d have it all over the neighborhood by dinner,” Tony agrees with a grin. “You’ve got a ticket for me? “

For a moment, Bucky has no idea what he’d talking about, then he pulls out the half-bill and hands it over reluctantly. 

Romero moves to the end of the counter, and compares the bill to something written on a pad beside the shop’s phone. It’s near the door to a back room...cardboard boxes stack on shelves, some kind of storeroom. There's probably a door to the alley beyond it.

“I got your lunch order right here.” He's given a big brown paper bag spilling over with crusty loaves of bread. A smaller bag joins it, holding several flat packets wrapped in white butcher paper and tied with twine, just like the ones Mrs. Martelli’s order was wrapped in. “And this--ham, cheese, salami. Tell him it’s two pounds.”

“Two pounds,” Bucky repeats. After all this, it really is lunch? “I’ll tell,, him, mister. What about my ticket? I get the rest when I get back with the order.”

Romeo chuckles, looking him over. “Aren’t you just the bee’s knees? We’re’d he find you, anyway?”

 _Minding my own business_ \--but he’d better not crack wise. This guy is going to remember him. So much for in and out! “Around the neighborhood.” That’s polite, but it could mean anything.

“Here your ticket, kid. Hey, have a snack on your way home.” The man reaches over and sticks something into Bucky’s left trousers pocket. “Just get that back stuff to Mr. ah, Bogart fast as you can, huh?”

He’s taking a breath to agree that yes, sir, he’ll step on it--when the front door of the shop crashes open. Broken glass clatters in the front room.

Romeo swears and pushes him into the storeroom. “Out the back! Run!”

Sure enough, there’s an alley back behind the deli. Bucky darts left, instinctively heading in the general direction of the bus stop. He’s only a few yards from the sidewalk when someone behind him yells. The bus sails past, and Bucky sprints out of the alley and down the pavement, aiming for the bus, which has come to a stop. He waves madly as he runs toward it. 

There are others in line to board. Bucky fishes a nickel from his pocket and has it in his hand is he trots up the steps on the heels of the font in front of him. Whoever was chasing him hasn’t caught up. He’s the final passenger to board…Bucky catches his breath, relieved.

Once he’s taken a seat, he investigates his cargo. The big bag holds four loaves of bread, the kind dusted with semolina, light and airy…any good Italian bakery could supply it. The white-wrapped parcels…they don’t smell like anything. If it’s been sitting and waiting while he came across town, you’d think it would be smelling like its contents, and no grease stains have soaked through, either. Surreptitiously, he flexes one…it doesn’t feel like meat.

 _Okay, so think, Barnes_ he scold himself. 

_Probably not. There’s writing on the packets scrawled in pencil. Letters, not whole words…for a minute, he thinks it might be abbreviations, then he catches on--Roman numbers! Lots of "C"s--isn't C 100?_

_Then the bus pulls up to another stop, and Bucky catches sight of a very familiar-looking dark green car hovering nearby. That’s that guy from before, his Packard running just fine._

_Another kid gets off the bus, and Bucky watches as the man from the Packard emerges to follow him. The kid also happens to be carrying a brown paper bag, and Bucky hopes he doesn’t get hurt. He walks up the steps of a house, the man on his heels as the bus pulls away again._

If the Packard guy is the only one on his tail, the smartest thing he can do is get off the bus before the guy catches up to him for real. His two pals from the other car, they must be the ones who busted into the deli. If Packard is following that other kid, he couldn’t have gotten a good look at him--the other kid is a year or two older and his shirt was brown, not blue--of course, there’s always the chance the kid will describe the newest passenger to his pursuer. 

Bucky gets off at the next stop, crosses the street and waits for a bus going the other way--they’re not going to expect him to double back. It’ll take him longer to get back to Bogart Street, but getting there in one piece is more important, he figures. 

Waiting at the bus stop, it occurs to him to see what Romero gave him. 

A semolina roll the size of his fist, the last few inches or so of a pepperoni sausage and--a whole twenty-dollar bill! Bucky gapes at it, then hollers, “Taxi!” 

_***_

There’s a ringing sound above his head. “Is it time for school?” Steve asks hazily. He expects his mother to answer, but a man’s voice says, “About damn time.” 

Footsteps thud up the limestone steps. A door opens and closes. He opens his eyes. Basement. Three men. Fedora. There’s a funny taste in his mouth. Must be that cough syrup. Steve closes his eyes again, listening to the men at the card table. Something about Aqueduct…that’s a racetrack…are they bookmakers? Gamblers? What’s the story? 

The door opens and closes. Footsteps clomp back down. 

“That was Tony,” Viterbo reports. “The McNamaras came in and broke up the place just as the Barnes kid was leaving with our delivery. Tony’s been busy too mopping up, to call, but the kid ran out a while ago.” 

“Think he made it past them?” one of the others asks. “That’s a lot of dough to have running around town with McNamaras after it. Maybe we ought to--” 

Just then, someone bangs on the side door. Steve squints through his lashes. They’ve got _guns._ He freezes. Viterbo nods to Fedora, who has a revolver in his hand as he answers the door. He lowers it and nods to the others. 

“I got your lunch!” Bucky announces, holding up the bags in triumph as he enters. “The deli guy said I should tell you it’s two pounds.” _Or maybe two thousand bucks, it I’m adding that letter code of theirs up right. Anyway, I earned my cut._ Then Bucky hears an unexpected noise--he’d know those adenoids anywhere--and turns. ”Steve? What are _yo_ u doing here?” 

Steve blinks ostentatiously, a guy who hadn’t heard anything in the armchair where he’s been feeling no pain. “We missed the matinee.” Steve gazes up at him. a blue-eyed owl, the essence of innocence. 

“Here, give this to your dad,” Viterbo says. The same receipt he brought in now has ten limp ten dollar bills stacked on top of it. Boilermaker paid off at twenty-five to one..” He produces the other half of the bill he gave Bucky. He holds on for a moment as Bucky reaches for it. 

For a minute, he’s sure he won’t get it, that Viterbo knows about Tony’s gift, then the older man releases it to him. “You want to make more, you know where to find me. Here, take some cough syrup for your pal.” 

Bucky gingerly accepts the pint bottle, tucking it into Steve’s jacket pocket as he hauls him out of the chair. 

“Come on, buddy, time to go,” he says, avoiding looking at the men, who are clearly waiting for them to get out of there. 

Steve is a little wobbly, but he's moving under his own steam. He really wants to get out of there. 

Leaving Bogart Street, Bucky cuts down an alley, Steve two paces behind him. He’s fairly chipper for someone who’s got a snoot full. Behind Vernon’s Greengrocer, they stops and Steve sits on a fruit crate. 

“What the heck, Steve?” Bucky is looking him over. "What the heck were you doing in Viterbo's basement?" 

“Your ma told me where you were when you didn’t show up at the Odeon. The guy in the hat saw me on the street--I had a coughing spell, and he brought me in and they gave me a couple shots. It helped--I stopped coughing. They said you were coming back, so I took a nap while I was waiting. I feel pretty good!” He figures Bucky would only get more upset if he mentioned the guns. 

“Glad to head it” Bucky’s tone is ironic. “Mr. V. asked me to go get lunch for him and his friends--it was clear over in Bensonhurst. I didn’t want to get Da into trouble, so I went. Some guys came in while I was getting their package and I had to run for it--” 

“The McNamaras,” Steve contributes helpfully. “They got a phone call while I was there.” 

Bucky digs in his pockets and offers Steve the somewhat gnawed pepperoni. “The McNamaras? I hope that kid from the bus is okay, They play rough!” 

Then it’s his turn to share his exploits. Being right there in the deli and getting chased to the bus stop. Meanwhile, he adds up all the cash he’s acquired. “The taxi cost eighty-five cents...I’m giving my folks twenty-five dollars. I’m going to keep a buck for my services. Steve, you take the rest. You can get real medicine, not Viterbo’s hooch.”<

“Thanks, Buck--are you sure you can spare it?” ‘Steve accepts the cash. He looks at the bills reverently. “I’ll settle my bill at Draper’s. I can get Mr. Bailey to give me my prescription.” 

He flashes a grateful smile. As much fun as it would’ve been to go to the Automat, Steve holds on to his sense of responsibility. “I can get groceries, if there’s anything left. Ma brings food home from the hospital sometimes, but the cupboard’s kind of bare right now." He remembers something. "Your ma invited me to supper.” 

“I’d better take this loot home before anything happens to it.” Bucky straightens up. “And I better let Da know what happened. Why don’t you just come by the house when you’re done to Draper's?” 

Bucky legs it home, the afternoon’s events replaying in his head. The matinee suddenly seems tame. Charles Lindbergh may be America’s hero, but he’s probably never been chased by gangsters! 

“There you are, James. Stevie was here looking for you.” 

“Where’s da?” 

“Downstairs--” 

Bucky pelts down the wooden steps down to the basement where his father has his workshop. “Da! You won’t believe that happened!” 

Patrick Barnes gazes at his son. “Did you give Mr. Viterbo my receipt?” 

“You bet!” He fishes the scrap out of his pocket along with the fifty dollars. “He said Boilermaker was good, he paid off twenty-five to one--that was after I got back. He had me go to a deli in Bensonhurst and get lunch.” 

“Lunch…was it?” 

“Maybe, maybe not.” He describes his packages. “The bread was just bread, unless there was something baked in it, but I think those so-called cold cuts were something else. Numbers or money, maybe.” 

His dad looks pale as Bucky narrates the run-in with the McNamaras. “My god, and all from me placing a stupid bet!” he exclaims. “Next time, I’ll go myself.” 

“And I got this!” Bucky produces his cash, including the torn ten. 

“We’ll pass that along to your ma,” Pat says with a smile. “She was just talking the other night about you needing school clothes in the fall--you’re growing up fast. But not too fast. I want you to steer clear of Mr. Viterbo. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.” 

“Okay, Pop. I didn’t want him to get made at me for turning him down. I thought it might cause trouble for you.” 

Bucky doesn’t want to get into a spot like that again, even though the payoff was sweet. He consoles himself with the thought that he’s contributed handsomely to the family finances. And had enough to take care of Steve’s meds so he won’t be keeling over all the time. 

Over bowls of cabbage and pork, Patrick Barnes presents his wife with sixty-five dollars, citing a nice windfall at the track. She grumbles that he ought to know better than to gamble, but takes it and tucks it away in her apron pocket. 

“I suppose at least the ponies aren’t as crooked as some of those rigged card games out there,” she pontificates. “At least they’re out in the open and legal.” 

Bent over their bowls, Bucky and Steve don’t say a word. 

_..._


End file.
